


The Queen of Hearts, the Ace of Spades, the Jack

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Aromantic, Beaches, Fluff, Happy Ending, LGBTQ Character, Multi, Other, Polyamory, Queer Themes, Queerplatonic Relationships, Romance, ace characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 08:04:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6896869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I do not know how to do summaries without spoilers anymore. They're at the beach, there's swimming and no sex, and ace Athos and aro Porthos and queerplatonic and and, then the bit that's spoilery, which is the thing that happens. Um... the tags! the tag. The relationship tag. That happens. But it's happy, because polyamory, and LGBT stuff, and happy relationships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: panic attack, PTSD-like symptoms,

Athos wakes to sunshine, and the curtains being drawn open. He knows what that sound means. He pulls the duvet firmly around himself, holding it tight, and sticks his head under the pillow. It's no good. Porthos yanks the duvet away, laughing low and soft, and plasters himself over Athos' back, wet and naked. He doesn't bother getting Athos' head out from under the pillow.

“Morning,” Porthos rumbles.

“Damn you,” Athos growls.

“It's nearly one, you lazy git,” Porthos says, laughing again. “Already been for a run, and two swims, and went to the bakery and bought breakfast. Ate breakfast. Ate your breakfast. Ate d'Artagnan's breakfast. Ate lots of breakfast.”

“Good for you.”

“Come on. Everyone went for a walk up to the head.”

“Should have gone with them.”

“But, Athos, I didn't want to go for a boring walk. I wanted to go in the sea.”

“So go in the sea.”

“I went in. I want you to come in with me, now.”

“I'm in my pyjamas,” Athos says, then realises his mistake.

It's too late, though. Before he can properly fight, Porthos has de-clothed him efficiently. Athos knows that if he doesn't get up and put on trunks he'll get scooped up and dropped in the water fully naked. It's happened three times so far this holiday. He gets his trunks on quickly, snatching them from Porthos' hand. Porthos beams at him.

“You're horrible,” Athos grumbles. “Can I at least have coffee?”

“Nope. You're not drinking it, remember? It makes you super anxious, on these meds.”

“Oh yeah. This is terrible. Life is terrible, Porthos.”

“I know,” Porthos says, far too cheerfully, tugging Athos into an affectionate cuddle.

Athos gets scooped up and carried to the water, cradled in Porthos' arms. It's gentler than usual and he's not dumped into the sea, Porthos just stands at the edge of the sand, looking out. Athos loops his arms around Porthos' neck and looks out too, content where he is. He can feel Porthos' heart beating, can feel his breathing.

Porthos sets Athos down, but only so he can slather him in suncream. Athos endures it because last year he got burnt. Porhtos scoops him up again, after, and wades out into the waves, still holding Athos. He goes out to almost his shoulders, then lets Athos float, holding him by the back of the neck, staying close and keeping him safe. Athos lies back, breathing deeply for a while, watching the sky.

“I know you're not having much fun this year,” Porthos says.

“I am,” Athos protests.

“You're very on edge. There are too many people, and things are making you anxious,” Porthos says. “Is it better, just me and you?”

“Yes.”

“Is it better, just you? Being let sleep all day?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“I don't like being dumped naked in the sea, though,” Athos tries, going for innocent.

“Sly sneaky darling,” Porthos croons. “I know that bothers your anxiety not a bit, little exhibitionist.”

“I hate you.”

“Mm. I know.”

Porthos lets Athos go, to float beside him, linking their hands. They drift like that for a while, then Athos turns onto his front and swims out, then along Louis' private beach, then back to Porthos, in a big loop. Porthos just floats. His eyes are closed when Athos gets back.

“Boo,” Athos says.

Porthos reaches out a languid hand and tries to shove Athos' head under.

*

“Time to wake up my darling,” Athos says.

Porthos groans, rolling away from him. Athos laughs and follows, kissing his neck. Porthos pushes him away, groaning again.

“Come on, baby,” Athos whispers. “Wakey wakey. I have good news.”

Porthos snorts, flopping onto his front, away from Athos' hands and mouth and everything. Athos laughs again, burying his face against Porthos' shoulder. They're in Porthos' room, in the evening. Everyone's back from their walk, making noise and being rowdy and cheerful in the back garden or on the beach. It's still really sunny, and Porthos is definitely hiding from it- the curtains are shut. Athos laughs again, wrapping his arms around Porthos.

“Dinner is going to be pasta bake,” Athos whispers, into Porthos' ear. “And pizza. Pasta bake is veggie, pizza is not. You could eat both, though, I bet.”

Porthos makes an interested noise, shifting under Athos. Athos laughs again.

“Cheesy cheesy pasta bake, made by Aramis, and d'Artagnan's pizza. Cheesy, mozzarella, pepperoni. Olives. And salad. Proper salad, with capers. Mm, capers,” Athos says.

Porthos groans and turns over, dislodging Athos, and sits up. He rubs his face, then glares at Athos, then flops backwards and laughs. Athos settles against him again.

“How long?” Porthos asks, and his stomach rumbles.

“Maybe twenty minutes,” Athos says. “I brought you a snack, though, because, well, you're you.”

He drops the packet of pretzels on Porthos' chest. Porthos hums, hand closing over it. Athos buries his face in Porthos shoulder and laughs again, happiness swelling inside him.

“Love you, tiddlywink,” Porthos says, hand resting against the back of Athos' neck, stomach grumbling loudly again.

“I know,” Athos says. “Eat them, before whatever monster's inside you bursts out and eats me.”

“Dunno why everyone thinks you're all quiet and harmless and serious,” Porthos says, around a mouthful of pretzel. “You're such a silly.”

Athos smiles. Porthos gets to call him silly, because Porthos makes him silly. It's become so easy to relax around Porthos, so easy to feel safe enough to open himself up, safe enough to not worry about all the things. He can just say what's on his mind, make jokes, be sarcastic and rude, whatever. Porthos will laugh, or tell him to shut up. He is also able to be tender, which is hard. Tenderness, kindness, softness. Athos had those closed up inside of him, guarded by barbed wire and missiles and machine guns. With Porthos, everything guarding it just turns into bananas.

“Everything's bananas with you,”Athos mumbles, still pressed against Porthos.

“Mmhmm,” Porthos agrees, busy eating, not bothering to get elucidation of that. Either he understands, he understands the gist, or he just doesn't care.

“Are we going downstairs?” Athos asks, letting his distaste for the idea show through.

“I'm as peopled out as you, today, love,” Porthos says.

“Mm?”

“Yeah, bit fed up really. Aramis keeps on makin' sexual jokes at me, and Anne's just unhappy at the moment, and d'Artagnan is frustrated and really, really annoyin', I dunno what's up with him he's not talking to me about it. Connie seems to be on a power trip, she keeps on ordering me around, and sorta treats everyone like Louis jr. And then there's Louis senior. Athos, that man is a complete idiot. I like Sylvie, though.”

“Good,” Athos says. “I like Sylvie, too. I like kissing Sylvie. Is that okay?”

“Still fine. Don't want you kissing me, don't mind you kissing other people. Specially don't mind you kissing Sylvie, she's lovely, ain't she?”

“Mm hmm. Don't know what I want from that,” Athos admits, snuggling closer to Porthos.

“Long as you're not runnin' away with her, it's fine with me. You can even run away with her, if you tell me that's what you're doing. You know Virginia Woolf used to run off with Vita Sackville West? I can be Leonard Woolf. Don't mind that.”

Athos laughs, amusement bubbling up out of him in annoying little giggles that shake him. He tries to stop it, but Porthos gives him a squeeze and calls him 'tiddlywink' again, so Athos relaxes and lets it happen. There's gentle tap on the door, and Porthos tenses a little, then relaxes. Athos flops around until he can see the intruder, and smiles widely when he sees Sylvie.

“Dinner's ready in five minutes,” Sylvie says. “I think that means we're meant to go down, and then get roped into setting the table.”

“Yep,” Porthos says. “You're getting good at this.”

“Inseparables subtext? It's not as subtle as you guys think,” Sylvie says, sitting on the edge of the bed, absently stroking Athos' hair.

“Athos likes that,” Porthos says, grinning. “Like a blooming cat, he is.”

Athos doesn't deny it, stretching luxuriously, one hand landing on Porthos' belly, the other on Sylvie's thigh.

“In another life, I'd have had rambunctious sex with you,” Athos tells Sylvie.

“What?” Sylvie asks, laughing. “What are you on about? Also, rambunctious?”

“Think he's wanting to be subby for you,” Porthos says, getting up. “He's annoyingly kinky for an ace person. Likes bein' petted, and kissing people, and probably wearing a collar or something.”

“Don't want to wear a collar,” Athos says. “Not going to put you in one, either, or ask you to dominate me. I know you don't like either of those. Come on, Porthos. Relax, would you?”

“Right,” Porthos says, leaving the room.

“Was that my fault?” Sylvie asks, stopping her petting. Athos butts his head against her hand until she starts again, laughing softly at him. “Hedonist.”

“I don't get people calling me that. Who wouldn't like feeling nice?” Athos says. “No, it wasn't you. I don't know what that was.”

“Really? Usually you four read each other's minds,” Sylvie says. There's a sarcastic undertone there, and Athos decides he should defend their psychic claims.

“He's hungry,” Athos says, rolling off the bed and padding after Porthos, giving Sylvie a coy smile.

She just laughs at him again, following him to the stairs. He stops at the top and turns to kiss her, sighing against her lips, breathing her. He gets his arms around her and then they nearly tumble down the stairs as she trips a bit. Athos catches them on the bannister, she falls against him instead, and he kisses her.

“That was fun,” he says, pulling away, taking the steps two at a time. “Porthos! Did you find food? Where are you?”

“Kitchen!” Porthos calls.

Athos ignores Treville, hanging around the hallway, and the noise from the dining room, and the voices from the garden, and goes straight for the kitchen. Aramis is in there, and Porthos, Porthos sat on the counter eating cheese. He offers Athos a slice and opens his knees so Athos can settle between his legs.

“Did you kiss Sylvie?” Porthos asks.

“Yep,” Athos says, pleased with himself. He tilts his head back against Porthos and smiles. Porthos shoves a bit of cheese into Athos' mouth, then cuts himself another slice.

“That's gotta last us for sandwiches tomorrow,” Aramis says, coming to confiscate it.

“He's hungry,” Athos says, giving Aramis a begging look.

“You two are terrible,” Aramis says. “It'll be ready in two minutes, d'Art's already taken the pizza out to the garden. We're eating out there, tonight, it's so nice.”

“We're getting eaten, you mean,” Porthos grumbles. “There are mosquitos.”

“You'll live,” Aramis says. “Take this salad out, would you? Athos, not Porthos. You'll just eat it, Pip.”

“I will not. I'll just eat the bacon out of there,” Porthos says.

“No bacon, it's veggie,” Aramis says. “There is, however, feta, so you're not allowed near it.”

“And capers? Athos promised capers,” Porthos says.

“And capers,” Aramis says. “Athos? Are you taking this?”

“Nope,” Athos says.

“I'll take it,” Sylvie says, coming in.

Aramis hands her the salad bowl instead, and she sweeps through. Athos watches her go, smiling. Porthos gives him a squeeze.

“Can ace people have friends they kiss?” Athos asks, tilting his head back again.

“Don't see why not,” Porthos says. “You kiss Aramis sometimes, and d'Art.”

“Yeah,” Aramis agrees, grinning. “Very nicely. You're good at it, love. Porthos, can you hop down, please? And take the cuttlery out? And maybe the lemonade. Oh, we need glasses, too. Damn it, how many of us are there?”

“Treville,” Porthos begins. “You, me, Athos. d'Art, Constance, Anne, Louis one and Louis two. Sylvie, Ali, wanker.”

“Emile?” Aramis asks. “How is this helpful?”

“That's… who was it again? Treville,” Porthos says, starting again. Aramis hits him with a tea-towel and Porthos gives a bellow of laughter. “There are fourteen of us, darling.”

“You only listed twelve,” Athos says, frowning, counting on his fingers.

“I missed Elodie and Marie-Cessette, and-” Porthos cuts himself off, going suddenly still and silent.

“Who's last?” Athos asks, wrapping an arm around Porthos' waist and pulling him close.

“Milly,” Aramis says.

“Right,” Athos says. “Fourteen. Someone else'll have to take things out.”

Aramis does it himself, taking the glasses out of the cupboard, counting them out onto a tray and carrying them outside on that. He also gets the pasta bake out of the oven and carries that outside, too. He calls through the house that dinner is ready, and there's the usual stampeed as people make for the table. Athos tucks Porthos into his side and waits.

Porthos goes limp as Little Louis thunders past, resting his head on Athos' shoulder, sighing out a long breath. Athos strokes his cheek and ducks his head to get a look at his eyes, but Porthos shuts them and turns into Athos' shoulder, avoiding his gaze. Athos pats his shoulder and holds him close until he feels like moving.

“Are you coming out?” d'Artagnan asks, coming in and opening the oven, getting out five sticks of garlic bread and breaking them up into baskets.

“He had a flashback, panic attack, thingy,” Athos says. “We'll be out in a bit.”

“Oh, sure,” d'Artagnan says, coming to try and get a look at Porthos' eyes. Porthos whines. “Alright, baby. I'm not going to bother you, just seeing if you're okay.”

Porthos relaxes again, and d'Artagnan gives him a quick hug before leaving them alone. Athos waits. Porthos cries, eventually, holding onto Athos, tears trickling over his cheeks into Athos' skin and shirt. Athos waits that out, too, and then waits out the shakiness. At last Porthos steadies.

“Ready to go out?” Athos asks, gently.

“Not really.”

“Do you want me to get you stuff? You can go into the living-room, or upstairs. Whatever.”

“No. Won't help. Just let me get a few breaths, then we'll go eat.”

Athos waits again, while Porthos sighs deeply a few times before straightening up and giving a smile. Athos lets go of him, and follows him out. d'Artagnan's saved them seats between himself and Aramis, and they close ranks around Porthos, making him give them soft, grateful looks. They all have a habit of giving him food, when he's had a moment, and that's not changed on holiday- they all put things onto his plate, things they think he'll like, plucked from the table or fetched from the house. Aramis gives him extra cheese from tomorrow's sandwich makings.

Porthos revives half-way through dinner, and Athos slumps back, relieved. He was tired of being switched on. It's his turn to be protected, then, the others covering his conversational gaps and answering questions people ask. Athos smiles, glad he found this family. His brothers, his partner. Whatever Sylvie might become. He looks across the table to find her, and she gives him a wide, happy smile.


	2. Chapter 2

When Athos wakes up late, a few days later, no one is around. The house is empty. Athos searches for Porthos, but doesn't even find a note. He checks for a text, then shrugs and goes to find a book to take out to the beach. With Porthos gone, he can skip suncream. He'll only be out there a little while, he'll get too hot quickly enough. He'll sit in the shade. As he's making his way out the back, though, he gets caught.

“Suncream! Heads up, babe!” Porthos yells.

Athos ducks, far too familiar with the idiot. A bottle of suncream goes whistling over head and hits the wall, splattering up it. Porthos comes over, giving the wall a rueful look.

“Oops,” Porthos says.

“Pip!” Aramis says, exasperation making him high-pitched. “You're such a fucking wanker!”

Louis, perched atop Aramis shoulders, crows in delight and repeats the words, like a little baby parrot. Porthos bellows with laughter, forgets Athos and the suncream, reaches up and lets Louis fall backwards into his arms, swinging him around with a roar.

“Them's fighting words, potato,” Porthos says, kissing Louis' forehead.

Athos tries to sneak away, but Porthos catches him again. He scoops cream off the wall, him and Louis both giggling, and gets Athos, smothering him in the stuff. Athos sighs, but gives in and allows it, setting a good example for the child. Porthos smothers Louis in it, too, still from the wall, still giggling away, and Louis returns the favour. Athos yet again tries to leave, and he makes it this time, but Porthos trails after him, Louis tucked in one arm, leaving Aramis to clear up the mess he made.

“Where are we going?” Porthos asks, falling into step with Athos.

“I am going to sit and read,” Athos says. “I don't know where you're going.”

“That sounds boring, eh, potato?” Porthos says, booping Louis' nose. Louis nods seriously. “Let's go paddling, Ath. Come on.”

“I don't have to spend every second in your company,” Athos complains, trying to break away and sit down in the shade. Porthos gives him such a wounded, betrayed look, though. Athos knows he's being played, but he can't resist anyway. He sighs.

Porthos beams at him, and the joy there is genuine, so Athos can't bring himself to regret giving in. He holds out his hand for Porthos to take, tosses his book into the grass in the shade, and lets himself be lead down to the water. d'Artagnan's down there, and Porthos yells a jubilant greeting, trying to get an arm free to hug him. He only has two arms, though, and he won't let go of either Athos or Louis, so it's mostly Athos doing the hugging.

“Wave jumping, Pip,” Louis demands. “Now.”

Porthos scolds him for being bossy, but does as ordered. Louis is the only one who can ever get away with giving Porthos orders. Porthos is far too indulgent of the child, in Athos' opinion. Athos extracts himself and watches their game, refusing to get involved. d'Artagnan settles at his side, hands in pockets, and they watch together.

*

“Does Porthos have PTSD?” Sylvie asks.

“Dunno,” Athos says, not opening his eyes.

He's lying in the shade, book open on his chest. Porthos fell in the sea, with Louis, making them both shriek with joy. Athos had taken the distraction and escaped to his shade and his reading. He is reading. Completely reading. Not napping a bit.

“Last night he had a flashback?” Sylvie asks.

“Dunno. We just call it that. Or panic attack,” Athos says, still not opening his eyes.

“Oh.”

Athos sighs out through his nose, harsh and frustrated.

“We don't have labels. We use ace, we use aro, we use gay, platonic lifepartner, trans, queer, mentally ill, depression, anxiety, PTSD, panic attack, flashback. Do you need more?”

“No. Sorry I asked.”

“Don't be,” Athos says. “Don't be sorry. Just listen, when we tell you something.”

“I can do that.”

“Good. We return the favour. We listen back.”

Porthos comes out of the house, then. Athos knows he does, he can see him, even though he's out of sight. The door opening, the change in the air, the breath. He can't chart all the little things that tell him it's Porthos. He doesn't bother trying. He just opens his eyes and tilts his head with a smile, waiting. Porthos comes, crouching beside him, and boops his nose.

“Hullo tiddlywink,” Porthos says.

“Hi,” Athos says. “Good swim?”

Porthos beams. He's still wet, wearing nothing but shorts. His hair's wet, too, but springy, drying out in the sun.

“Jeans-ish swim. Anne was cross that I fell in with Lou,” Porthos says, making a comical sad face, plopping down onto his arse and wiggling and shuffling until his thigh is under Athos' head.

“Was she actually cross?” Athos asks, getting more comfy in Porthos' lap.

“Yep,” Porthos says. “Called me irresponsible.”

Porthos seems entirely unconcerned by it, so Athos lets it be. Sylvie's watching them, a little bemused smile playing around her lips. Athos crooks his fingers, waiting for her to dip her head close enough to kiss. Porthos rolls his eyes.

“Tastes like sunshine,” Athos says, patting Porthos' knee. “Want a try?”

“Are you offering me out?” Sylvie asks. “You can't do that, Athos.”

“Asking if he wants a try with me,” Athos clarifies, smiling, patting Sylvie's cheek, getting the beautiful shape of it in his palm.

“I don't want to kiss either of you. Awful habit, that is,” Porthos says, shuddering dramatically, still grinning. “All them tongues and teeth and isn't it just like havin' a slug in your mouth?”

“No at all,” Athos says. “It's like sunshine.”

“Got plenty 'a that, thanks,” Porthos says, leaning back on his arms, smiling up at the sun.

“You're lovely,” Athos says. “Mm?”

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees with a sigh. “Gonna go take a nap, Ath.”

“Hm?” Athos asks.

“Nothing. Just… tired.”

“Peopled out?” Athos offers.

“Nah, they're being lovely today. Just, like… no other word for it but tired. You sleep all morning, I take naps.”

“Don't be more than half an hour or you won't sleep tonight,” Athos warns.

“I'll set an alarm,” Porthos says, getting out from under Athos' head.

He pats Sylvie on the head on his way past, and it makes her laugh. She sits cross legged next to Athos' head, bending over him, hair a curtain. Athos tangles his hand in it, pulling her down for more kisses. She sprawls across him, and that's good, too.

“Athos, I don't… what do I call this? With you?” Sylvie asks, a bit later, lying side by side.

“No idea,” Athos says. “I like you a lot, I find you fascinating. I like lying with you, I like kissing you. I don't want to date you, or be your boyfriend, or partner, or live together. I don't want it to be expected to grow. It's already big enough. I love you differently than I love Porthos, than I love Aramis or d'Artagnan.”

“Love,” Sylvie says.

“Oops. I'm quick at that one,” Athos says. “It's how it feels.”

“Okay. Yeah, alright. I can be this. Is it… is it a temporary thing? Will it wear off?”

“It hasn't yet,” Athos says, softly. “For anyone, really. It's just there, always. I don't know, none of it ever really makes sense. I just, you know. Love people. In different ways.”

“I can work with this,” Sylvie says, smiling. “Kissing, loving, cuddling. I'm alright with that. We can talk again if either of us starts to want something different.”

“Later today?” Athos asks, a bit alarmed by the idea of having to talk even more.

“No,” Sylvie says, laughing, stroking his cheek. “Later-later. Another time. Another day, another month. Whatever. Not today!”

Athos relaxes with a sigh, linking their hands. He should go make sure Porthos is up, at some point, maybe. Or he could stay here and lie in the shade with Sylvie.

*

Athos tiptoes into Porthos' room. It's gone two in the morning. He'd meant to sleep with Sylvie, and then he'd meant to sleep in his own room, but now he's here. He gets onto the bed and under the covers and nudges and pushes until Porthos wakes and wraps him in an embrace.

“Ath?”

“Yeah,” Athos whispers.

“Wha'?”

“Can you cuddle me.”

It's not a question. It needn't be. Porthos is already doing an admirable job of it, encompassing Athos until he feels like he's melting into Porthos' body, becoming part of him, enmeshed. Athos starts to sob so hard he can't breath. He presses his open mouth to Porthos' body to stop the screams from becoming loud, and shakes his way through a panic attack.

It tears at him, leaving him weak and shuddering, sick to his stomach, head fuzzy and aching. His skin is sore from the tears, patches of skin raw and hurting against Porthos' t-shirt. Athos gasps for breaths, gulping, trying to recover. Porthos recites pi to him, and then Fibonacci sequence, and then talks about the beauty of the golden mean for a while. Athos latches onto the numbers and the voice.

“Olivier,” Porthos murmurs, into Athos' hair. “Olivier, come now. Hush. That's enough.”

Athos takes a deep breath, and sets about relaxing into Porthos.

“Need you,” Athos admits.

“I know that. I need you, too. Besides which, I love you, like nothing else in this sometimes god-forsaken world. You bring the sun out, make me happy, turn the world into something beautiful. And you're so beautiful. So very lovely. That worn, tired face, and the one where you smile and look so much younger, and the one where you look at Sylvie and the world around you clicks into place, and the one where you look at me. All your faces, all of you.”

Porthos goes on, and Athos falls asleep to a litany of so many compliments, to an overwhelming wave of love.

*

Porthos gets up far, far too early. Athos grumbles and moans. Sleeping on top of Porthos has it's price. Athos tucks his hand into the waistband of Porthos' pyjama bottoms to try and keep him still. Porthos laughs and ruffles his hair, then just scoops him up.

“Want to sleep more?” Porthos asks.

Athos shakes his head. He's awake, now, and anxiety is already clawing at him. No more sleep for him. He scowls into Porthos' shoulder, and is borne to the bathroom and stripped naked as a baby. He showers with Porthos, not opening his eyes, leaning into Porthos' body. He's washed gently all over, and then dried, and carried back to his room, and dressed. He keeps his eyes shut the entire time.

“Indulgent,” he murmurs, threading his fingers into Porthos' hair, as Porthos puts Athos' socks on.

“Tell me you feel well enough for me not to be,” Porthos says.

“You know I don't.”

“I was going to go for a run?”

“No,” Athos says.

Porthos sighs, but carries him down to the kitchen. Porthos stops, suddenly, and Athos is forced to open his eyes. Treville is sat, with a cup of coffee.

“Morning,” Treville says. “Carry on, Porthos. I'm not here.”

Porthos grunts, and carries Athos to the table, setting him down and then making sure he'll be okay to sit there alone while Porthos gets himself breakfast, and Athos some juice and painkillers. Treville, true to his word, reads the paper and pretends not to exist. Porthos drops a kiss on the top of his head and gets him more coffee in thanks. Athos ignores everything and drinks his juice.

“Walk,” Porthos decides, when people start coming down for breakfast, intruding on their quiet.

“Take your phone, lovey,” Treville says, looking up from the paper. “I want some things from the supermarket, and you'll be going that way. I'll text you a list when I've put one together.”

“Alright,” Porthos says. “Not promising anything, though.”

Treville nods. Athos trails Porthos back up to the bedroom, and lets himself be put into outside clothes. Porthos dresses him warmly, even though it can't be that cold out. Athos is cold, though. They run into Sylvie on the landing by one of the bathrooms, a toothbrush in hand, hovering.

“d'Artagnan's been in there forever,” Sylvie says, smiling.

“I'm going for a walk,” Athos tells her, too abrupt. “You can't come.”

Sylvie raises an eyebrow.

“Oh yeah?” she says. “Alright. You don't need to say it like that.”

“I don't want you to come, though,” Athos says. “I'm just telling you.”

“Shh, Olivier. Go find your shoes,” Porthos says.

“No,” Athos says.

“He's not feelin' well,” Porthos tells Sylvie.

“Alright,” Sylvie says, again.

“You can come if you like, actually,” Athos decides.

Porthos gapes at him, mouth actually dropping open. Then he whistles and turns back to Sylvie.

“Better get dressed quick,” Porthos says. “Come on, chop chop. You can do your teeth later.”

Sylvie goes, and comes back out fully dressed and ready before five minutes has passed. Athos likes that. They go out through one of the side-doors, avoiding people. The first ten minutes is brisk, walking out of the small village and along the headland, where there is nobody, just the sea and the sky. Athos breathes a little easier. He slips his hand into Sylvie's, and she leans closer, laughing, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“You're a grumpy bugger when you're 'not feeling well',” she says, softly, sounding fond.

“Yeah,” Athos agrees.

He glances back to make sure Porthos is still at their backs, steady and solid. He's there, still staring at Sylvie. Athos flushes and speeds up a bit. They soon fall into a slow, meandering pace, though. Sylvie stops to pick a flower to stick in Athos' hair, laughing again. Porthos runs ahead a bit and then sits, waiting for them, gazing out over the sea.

“Are you okay?” Athos asks, when they catch up, sitting down beside him and letting go of Sylvie's hand.

“Yeah,” Porthos says, smiling. Sylvie wanders off, looking at the flowers, humming. Athos tips his head back to watch her. “Ath...”

“What is it?” Athos asks, turning his attention back to Porthos.

“You love 'er,” Porthos says, sounding absolutely astounded.

“No I don't,” Athos says.

“You do. Never mind, it doesn't matter. Um, you, uh… not the time. Right.”

“What?” Athos asks.

“You should ask her out, proper. To be your girlfriend.”

“I don't want her to be my girlfriend. We already talked about it, she and I.”

Porthos nods, looking out at the sea again. Athos reaches over to touch his cheek, making him turn his head. Porthos looks at him and smiles again, a little wistfully.

“I love you,” Athos says.

“I know,” Porthos says, but he still looks wistful and thoughtful.

“No, I do. I love you.”

“I know, I know. I'm being silly. You never want anyone, on days like this. It's new. I'm jealous.”

“Really? That's...” Athos hesitates, but he can't help himself. He grins. “That's kind of cool.”

Porthos groans and flops back into the grass, knee shoving at Athos. Athos laughs, and it brings Sylvie back, with more flowers. She sits and plaits them into his hair, messy and silly and happy. Athos' heart rate steadies, all of a sudden. He rests a hand on Porthos' chest and breathes deeply, free from the cage that's been tightening around him since yesterday evening. Porthos covers his hand with his own, and sighs.

“Are we doing Mr. Treville's shopping?” Sylvie asks.

“Mr. Treville. He'll like that,” Porthos says, snorting. “No, we're not. I don't feel like it. I don't want to move. I slept for shit last night, thanks to this one.”

“Not my fault,” Athos says. “There was no need to get up at that ungodly hour, either. We could have slept all day quite happily.”

“Not likely, you were beginning to steam,” Porthos mutters, quiet enough that Sylvie won't hear it.

“He means I was getting anxious,” Athos says. “Before I even woke up? Oh. Good catch. Thanks. I have panic attacks. I have anxiety. I'm clinically depressed. By 'not feeling well' he meant that I have been on the edge of a panic attack all day. It just went away. The sea helps, being alone helps.”

“You're not alone,” Sylvie says.

“Christ, when you share you just spill ever gut you have,” Porthos mutters, covering his eyes with his forearm.

“You're in a bad mood,” Athos says, poking him. “Porthos counts as being alone, Sylvie. It's why he's been gaping at you all day. You seem to count, too.”

“...oh,” Sylvie says, sounding about as astounded as Porthos.

That's embarrassing. Athos hadn't expected her to get the significance of that quite so fast.

“I'm in such a bad mood,” Porthos agrees. He sounds tired. Athos makes a soft clicking sound to question him, and rubs over his breast bone. “Dunno. Just unhappy. I'm fine. I'm gonna go back, take a swim. You be alright?”

“No,” Athos says, but he will, and Porthos knows it.

Porthos gets up and lopes off, jogging again. Maybe he'll run off his bad mood. Run and swim it off. Such an active body, Athos thinks, lying back in the grass in the weak sunshine. It's not warm, but it's bright enough to be nice. Sylvie lies beside him, hair spread around her in a cloud.

“You love me,” Sylvie whispers, sounding gleeful about it.

“No I don't,” Athos says. “Wait. I already said it yesterday, didn't I? Yeah, I do.”

“I've know you for nearly four months. I think I love you, as well,” Sylvie says. “No, I know I do.”

Athos smiles, closing his eyes, feeling her warm and soft beside him.

“I may want more from you than I said yesterday,” Athos admits.

“Oh yeah?”

“Maybe. I'm not sure. I think I'd quite like being your boyfriend.”

“I prefer partner, than girlfriend. I wouldn't mind that.”

“It wouldn't be… Porthos is my partner. I can't use that for you. You can call me your enbyfriend, if you like,” Athos says, feeling shy and exposed.

“What's that?”

“Enby. Non-binary. N-B,” Athos says, signing the letters to try and make it clearer, and then realising it probably doesn't. “The letters. Sorry, Porthos uses sign when he gets non-verbal.”

“Part of his not-PTSD thingy?”

Athos hesitates, parsing her tone for anything, but finds only his only struggle to talk about things they can't name. He nods.

“Enbyfriend. Okay, I quite like that. I'm not non-binary, so you can't use it for me?”

“No, I can't. I'm non-binary, trans-masc.”

“I know what that means, just haven't heard enby before. Gendernuetral for person?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Athos says.

“Do you use male pronouns?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe… maybe I could be...”

“Don't worry about it. It's just words. We'll go on Google,” Athos says, knitting their fingers together.

“Okay. Are you aromantic?”

“No. Just ace. Porthos is aro,” Athos says. “Sort of. He's not quite sure, but he likes it better than the rest.”

“So many labels.”

“We should go back. I need a nap, and I need to be at the house when Porthos gets back from his swim.”

They lie there for a bit longer, then wander back, still hand in hand.


	3. Chapter 3

Athos wakes gummy-eyed, to a sore throat, feeling sleepy but well rested. He yawns and turns from his stomach to his back. There's someone stood over him, and he yelps, scrambling up, heart beating hard against his ribcage.

“Sorry,” Porthos says, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Startled me,” Athos says. “Were you just hovering, watching me sleep? Again?”

“I usually wake you up,” Porthos defends.

“You watch me. I know you do.”

“How'd it go with Sylvie?”

“Good. She's going to be my girlfriend. But, not, because she doesn't like girlfriend. I can't use partner, because that's yours. She's calling me enbyfriend, but she's not non binary. Do you know any?”

“Ziz uses 'person' for zir, uh, lovers. Mary just goes for lover. Lili calls her partner her 'SO'. I don't know any good ones. I quite like person.”

“Sylvie's my person,” Athos says, testing it out. “No. Not right. Language is stupid. Girlfriend is stupid. She's not a girl. She's a woman.”

“Womanfriend,” Porthos says, sniggering.

“Shut up you plonker. Are you in a better mood?”

“Not really. I'm not even hungry.”

“Do you want a cuddle?”

“No. I'm still jealous,” Porthos says, whispering the last bit, sounding unsure and a little disgusted with himself. “You love her.”

“Yes. I've loved people before.”

“I know. But… it feels different. Long-term, and important.”

“I told her I couldn't use partner,” Athos says.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

*

“I have a solution,” Porthos says, bursting into Sylvie's room later, soaking wet with seaweed in his hair.

“Did you fall in the sea, love?” Athos asks, going to get the seaweed out. “Come drip on the rug, we can roll that up and clean it.”

Porthos holds his arms out passively and lets Athos gets him out of his wet things, grinning.

“A solution to what?” Sylvie asks, seemingly resigning herself to their kissing being interrupted. She doesn't seem to mind.

“To the labels thing,” Porthos says, going to the bed, down to his pants. He sits up against the headboard, gathering the cards they'd been messing about with before they got distracted kissing.

“Tell us then,” Athos says, sighing. Porthos' solutions tend towards the ridiculous.

“Oh,” Porthos says, shuffling, smiling, flipping two cards. “Sylvie can be your queen of hearts, and I'll be your ace.”

“That's… actually sweet,” Athos says. “But no use, outside of us.”

“I like it,” Sylvie says, smiling.

“It isn't my solution, I just thought of it because of the cards,” Porthos says, shuffling the deck and offering it to Sylvie in a fan. “Pick a card.”

Sylvie takes one and shows it to Athos. Athos has seen most of Porthos' tricks, but he indulges him. Porthos shuffles, pulls a card from the middle, presses the card to his forehead and shuts his eyes.

“Ace of diamonds,” he says.

“Um, no,” Sylvie says.

“Oh,” Porthos says, shuffling the cards again, frowning. “One, two, three… one, two… wait, there's a card missing. Did you nick your card? That's cheating.”

  
“I didn't,” Sylvie says, indulging him too, playing along.

“You've got it, I know you do,” Porthos says. “Open your mouth. I knew the queen of hearts would be trouble, I've read Alice In Wonderland. Off with your head, good lady. No taking the cards.”

Sylvie opens her mouth, and Porthos peers in, then sits back, scowling. He holds out a hand and wriggles his fingers.

“I don't have it,” Sylvie says, laughing.

“It's up your sleeve, queen,” Porthos says.

Athos smiles. It is up Sylvie's sleeve, Athos saw Porthos slide it up there when he leant forwards to look in her mouth. Sylvie snorts when she finds it there, and flicks it at Porthos.

“Athos saw me slip that up there,” Porthos says. “My solution is that you can be Athos' partner, and his queen of hearts. I will be his husband, and his ace.”

“My husband,” Athos says. “Porthos, I'm not marrying you. I don't believe in marriage, and you don't want it.”

“Don't have to marry me. I'll just be your husband. I like it,” Porthos says, and his jaw sticks out stubbornly. Athos knows he's never going to be able to un-cleave Porthos from it now.

“What about me?” Athos says. “What am I?”

“You're Sylvie's enbyfriend and my partner,” Porthos says. “And my jack.”

Porthos retrieves the cards and pulls the jack of diamonds out.

“You diamond,” Porthos says.

“You're not a troll,” Athos says, cupping Porthos' face, thumb brushing his cheek. “You're not stupid.”

“Neither are the trolls,” Porthos says.

“You're not a troll,” Athos repeats softly, pressing a kiss to Porthos' forehead. “You're not. I love you, you can be my husband, I can call you that. Anything you like. I love you, Porthos.”

“Mm,” Porthos agrees. “Queen of hearts. I'm good.”

“Always fictionalising, turning things into each other, changing the world,” Athos whispers. “God I love you.”

A soft smile spreads over Porthos' face and he breathes deeply. Sylvie shifts, and they remember she's there and pull away from one another. Porthos apologises, and deals the cards for Gin Rummy. They play most of the afternoon, and in the evening it starts to rain. Porthos cooks, and they eat inside, in the dining room. Athos leaves halfway through, the amount of people too much. He takes his food to the kitchen and finishes alone before retreating to his bedroom.

Porthos comes up early, settling at Athos' side and dozing for a while before kissing him goodnight and retreating to his own bedroom. Athos assures him again that he's loved, then lets him go. They rarely sleep together, Porthos preferring his own bed and preferring to leave that boundary in place. One of the few he leaves. Athos settles down with Terry Pratchett's 'Monstrous Regiment'.

He's surprised when Sylvie slips in. She looks unsure, so he pulls back the duvet to invited her closer. She comes and cuddles up with him, reading over his shoulder. She keeps on laughing, stroking his hair. She starts reading aloud, and they shift until he's curled against her.

“Porthos called you subby,” Sylvie murmurs.

“Mm. I like it, sometimes.”

“I can do that with you,” Sylvie says.

“I'd like that.”

Sylvie goes back to reading, and Porthos is right. When he's with Sylvie, the world clicks into place around him. He's asleep, Sylvie in his arms, her hair in his face, moving with their breathing, when Porthos comes back in. Athos wakes, though, always a light sleeper. He spots Porthos frozen in the doorway, breath too fast.

“Porthos?” Athos asks, sitting up, clicking on the bedside light. Porthos shakes his head. “Come here, it's fine. Come here.”

Porthos comes, all the way around the bed and to the side Sylvie isn't curled up in. He sits on the edge, back to Athos.

“Just wanted a hug,” Porthos whispers.

“What time is it?” Athos asks.

“About twelve. Thought you'd be awake.”

“It's fine. Do you actually just want a hug, or did you come for cuddles and to sleep here?”

“Just a hug. Needed one before sleeping.”

Athos shifts so he can wrap around Porthos, rest his head on Porthos' shoulder. He doesn't know how to ease Porthos' uncertainty. They're poly, he's dated other people before, he's fallen in love before. Porthos has had other important relationships, too. Loved other people. Athos doesn't know what it is about this one that's upsetting Porthos. He's almost certain that Porthos knows, but isn't saying.

“Will you talk to me?” Athos asks, gently.

“Not sure,” Porthos says. “I just… it's other stuff, not you. Not really. I know that. I've always known I'm gonna be alone a lot of my life, Ath. Known it, deep in me.”

“You won't be. Not as long as I'm here, which will be forever. I'm immortal.”

“Such a silly,” Porthos says, leaning back into Athos. “I know. Not really the thing. Told you, it's not you. It's just feeling, you know? Certainty, loneliness. Not even the alone thing, just… alone. Never gonna be like you with Sylvie, and that… sometimes it's like there's just something missing in me, and I'm just broke.”

“You are not. You are loving, and wonderful. And you're mine,” Athos says. “Entirely mine. I'm yours. My husband.”

“Oh. I like it when you say it.”

“Yeah? You are, have been for ages. Don't need church or legal. You're my husband. A rose by any other name, as Shakespeare said. Partner, husband, my ace, my darling, my heart. It all means the same thing. Mine. Forever. Us. Romantic, platonic, sexual, soul mates. Any universe, any time, any incarnation. Love.”

“You been reading them fantasy crap things again?”

“Yes,” Athos says, with great, great dignity.

“You're an entirely daft sod, tiddlywink.”

“I call you all those nice things, and you call me daft.”

“And a sod, and tiddlywink. My li'l gender-warrior,” Porthos says.

“Gender-warrior?” Athos asks, laughing, pressing his face into Porthos' neck.

“My Epicoene. Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I shall pledge with mine.”

“Or leave a kiss but in a cup, and I'll not look for wine,” Athos whispers back, pressing a kiss to Porthos' skin.

A promise. A pledge. Porthos goes soft and loose, sighing out a long breath. Athos breathes in relief, smiling.

“Alright, tiddlywink. I'm good,” Porthos says.

“Ben Jonson. Every time. I've got to remember that,” Athos says.

“I love the shit out of you,” Porthos says, twisting so he's face to face with Athos, cupping his cheek. “Goodnight.”

Porthos gets up and wanders out, pausing in the doorway to glance back with a smile. Athos turns the light off when the door closes gently, and goes back to cuddling with Sylvie.


End file.
